


Starters

by Mystrade_Dispatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrade_Dispatch/pseuds/Mystrade_Dispatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mycroft wanted to smile. Or laugh. Or snog the mortified look off Greg's face and push him onto his desk and have his way with him on top of the ruddy photos, budget reports, requisition forms, and the big bloody check he'd just written, compliments of the Crown."</p><p>____</p><p>Greg and Mycroft have a bit of a chat at the end of a tough Sherlock-solved case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starters

**Author's Note:**

> AN: A while back, I was going to do the OTP 30-day challenge, wrote out this bit, and then lost it. I remembered enough of the basic storyline to reconstruct some of it and turn it into "Stigma." I just found my old laptop today and discovered some old files. I wish I had time/energy to do the challenge. Ah well, maybe I won't rule it out.

Mycroft Holmes signed the check with a flourish and pushed it toward Greg Lestrade with a tight smile.

“There. I think that should adequately cover the damage to the area car my brother commandeered in his last investigation. You could purchase a new one, if necessary.”

Greg glanced down and did a double-take at the amount.

“Area car? There's enough here to buy a fleet of bloody Foxhounds!”

He gazed at the check in mild awe, and with a bit of reluctance, picked it up and held it out to Mycroft.

“You know I can't take this.”

“Any amount left over can be donated to the CSiS Charity Fund, if you like,” said Mycroft, ignoring the bit of paper fluttering between them. “It's the very least I can do.”

Greg pursed his lips, looked at the check again, and put it just out of reach on his desk.

“Sherlock got to the perp just as he was about to pour petrol on his old nanny and the two boys she was looking after. He'd already lit the matches." Lestrade's voice was grim. "I'm not saying Sherlock has carte blanche to steal patrol cars whenever he takes a fancy, but in this case, all things considered, we can look the other way.”

“Detective Inspector, when you agreed to take Sherlock on as a consultant, I gave you my word that you'd never suffer for it – materially, at least.” Mycroft studied his fingernails. “I don't always approve of my brother's investigative methods, though I'm given to understand that he'd handed your team ample evidence of the suspect's guilt after the second fire.”

“Yeah ...” Greg massaged the bridge of his nose. “We couldn't break his alibi at first. His boss swore he was there and it  _looked_  like him on the surveillance film -”

“Yes, that was unfortunate.” Mycroft looked up. “The surveillance footage, I mean. There was a youth with shaggy hair of the same shade as the arsonist, but with his back to the camera, in a uniform. It enabled the owner of the shop to cling to his lie that he'd seen the suspect with his own eyes, when in reality he was no more in the shop than the suspect himself was.”

“Right. Once Sherlock cottoned on to the condition of the bloke's shoes or some-such, he broke down about having gone out while on shift to have it off with his girlfriend. When we first showed him the tape, he'd said that the bloke on the footage was our boy working as usual because he didn't want to get caught out. He'd have a lot of explaining to do at the home office – not to mention to his wife. Still don't know who the bloke on the tape was. The perp was the only person fitting the description who worked there.”

“I think you'll discover – if your forensics team is ever able to find a DNA match – that the 'homeless' victim in the third fire was, in life, the approximate height, weight and age of your suspect. At a glance, there would be a superficial likeness. The suspect was aware of his boss's secret trysts in the middle of the afternoon, of course, and so he knew it would be easy to substitute this man in his place while he set the second fire. Once his part was played, however, and the alibi established, the suspect had no further use for him,” said Mycroft. “He's likely someone the suspect knew well, but not a family member.”

“A friend? A schoolmate?” Greg sat up a bit straighter. “Maybe an old coworker? Bloke had a crowded CV for only being 22.”

“He was also quite generous in his off hours, I believe. An avid volunteer, wasn't he?” Mycroft raised a brow. “I wouldn't be surprised if he spent time in drug rehabilitation centers -  _helping._  It would have been relatively simple to take a newly clean former addict – one who bore more than a passing resemblance to himself – under his wing and manipulate him. Perhaps with promises of money or more drugs. It would be one of the more downtrodden centers: the places where poor unfortunates are warehoused and are very rarely visited while receiving treatment or missed when they are released after being 'cured.' But perhaps you may get lucky. There may be someone looking for his or her missing son, or grandson … or brother.”

Mycroft looked away briefly when he saw the lines around Greg's eyes soften in understanding.

He discreetly cleared his throat. “But I'm simply speculating, of course.”

Greg almost groaned. “I'm never going to completely close this case, am I?”

“Just a passing thought, Detective Inspector. You've gotten your man, after all.” Mycroft smiled gently. “And I've taken enough of your time. Please do let me know if you need anything else.”

Greg stared across the desk at him. He was studying him narrowly, eyes cool and watchful. Mycroft cocked his head slightly. His expression was one of calm unconcern, but he felt a flush start below his collar.

“There _is_ something else?”

“Maybe.” His gaze darted over Mycroft's shoulder. “Did you lock the door when you came in?”

Mycroft looked around. Beyond the door of Greg Lestrade's office, the hive of New Scotland Yard buzzed pleasantly. No one was so much as looking in their direction.

“I did not. I assumed that only an emergency would entice one of your officers to enter a closed door.”

“You'd be surprised at what constitutes an 'emergency' around here,” said Greg. “Coffee's out? The bog overflows? Guess where they run. Sometimes I'm surprised when someone barges in wanting to talk about an an actual murder.”

“ _Should_ I have locked the door, then?”

“Probably wouldn't've been necessary. My team saw you come in. Sherlock annoys the piss out of most of them, but  _you_? You  _scare_  the piss out of them.”

Mycroft frowned. “I'm sure I don't know why. I don't think I've spoken more than two words to anyone here, save yourself.”

“Some people don't need to _say_ anything to make an impression.”

Mycroft wasn't sure if he should smile at that or feel faintly alarmed. He settled for a half-grin and an elegant shrug.

“Is there something else I can do for you, Detective Inspector?”

“You said something,” Greg began slowly, “about how I'd gotten my man. It got me thinking that it's not quite true. Well, it is in this arson/murder business, but not in … other ways.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to lick his lips. “Ah. I think I see.”

Greg smiled slowly. “Yeah?” His voice dipped into an arousingly low register. “I thought you might.”

“Should I …” There was a sudden catch in Mycroft's throat and he had to swallow hard, much to Greg's amusement. “Should I lock the door now?”

Greg looked down at his desk. There was an open folder on it, glossy crime-scene prints spilling from within. Mycroft followed Greg's eyes, and could tell at a glance that the splashes of red and yellow in the photos weren't from overturned paint cans.

“No.” Greg sighed, gathering the pictures together, lining up their edges neatly and putting them back into the folder. “Not here. It's not the right place for … er, that. Do you have plans tonight?”

“Plans?” Mycroft repeated warily. “Ah. Well, no. I don't believe I have anything pressing. What did you have in mind?”

Greg smiled. “A drink for starters.”

“For  _starters_?”

Greg went on smiling. “For  _starters_. After that, well, we'll play it by ear, I suppose.”

Mycroft was very still. “Detective Inspector, if you're concerned that I'm attempting to bribe you, let me reassure –”

“Oh for the love of ...” Greg growled, moving around the desk. Mycroft met his stare steadily, not moving away when Lestrade leaned over him, his breath puffing tantalizingly against his lips.

“I'm asking you out on a  _date_ , you officious git!”

“I'm  _aware_ of that. You've been flirting with me – rather charmingly, I might add – ever since I walked into your office.” Mycroft took hold of his briefcase, pushing a set of papers inside it with an icy dignity. “I'm simply not entirely sure  _why_ you are doing so –”

“Maybe because I fancy the hell out of you and this is the first time I've gotten you alone since my divorce?”

Mycroft glowered at him, trying not to trace the contours of Greg's mouth with his eyes.

“If you would let me finish my  _sentence_. I'm simply not entirely sure  _why_ you are doing so in such a tentative manner. You're not a man prone to making rash decisions in your personal life. You wouldn't even broach this subject if you weren't reasonably sure of a positive response. I never deluded myself that I was being entirely subtle about my attraction to you. Yet, you attempted to distract me by being overly amorous. The insinuation of a locked door … suggesting that you had more in mind for an evening out beyond sharing a drink...”

Mycroft smirked at Greg's rapidly paling face. “It's as if you are trying out a plan of seduction – one you don't wish to use on  _me,_ but as I am handy, and in the right place at the right time -”

“Look ...” Greg straightened up so quickly, Mycroft fancied he could hear his back cracking. “I wasn't -”

“Two things attract me to you, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft. “One is your forthrightness. A person always knows where he stands with you, be it good or bad. The other is your devotion to your work. Did you really expect me to believe that you'd be inclined to shag me on top of photos from a crime scene of a murder-suicide? And just minutes after we'd discussed a series of gruesome arsons that left four people burned beyond recognition?”

“Okay, okay.” Greg shielded his eyes with one hand. “I'm sorry. I was laying it on a bit thick, I suppose. But you're wrong. I wasn't using you as some sort of guinea pig. I really do want to have a drink with _you_. Or dinner. Or … whatever. It's been 15 years since I've asked someone out. To say I'm out of condition is an understatement.”

Mycroft wanted to smile. Or laugh. Or snog the mortified look off Greg's face and push him onto his desk and have his way with him on top of the ruddy photos, budget reports, requisition forms, and the big bloody check he'd just written, compliments of the Crown.

But all he did was stand up, glance at his watch, and look over at Greg, who seemed to be calculating whether he could squash himself into the vent right below his window.

“Did you have a time in mind?”

Greg's head whipped up and around. “What?”

“A time. Tonight.” Mycroft did smile then. “I would like very much to have a drink with you. For _starters_.”

“Oh. Oh … good.” Greg breathed. “I mean, great. Brilliant. Uh, time … how about eight?”

“That would be fine. Shall I meet you somewhere, or ...?”

“I could pick you up. I'm out in the suburbs now, so I've started driving in.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft inclined his head. “Speaking of driving, would you like a ride down to Baker Street? It's on my way.”

Greg stared. “What makes you think I'd want to go there now?”

“Those pictures.” Mycroft nodded toward the folder. “They're arranged in precisely the order Sherlock prefers them – the bloodiest photographs at the beginning. You've called him in on the case, and well done, as it's far from a murder-suicide, obviously. Nicely staged, I would imagine. Were the victims involved in the arts? At any rate, my car is downstairs.”

Greg's smile held the tiniest bit of regret in it, as if he'd just imagined several scenarios that could conceivably take place between the two of them in the back of the darkened, well-appointed vehicle, and was  _extremely_  sorry that he could not avail himself of the opportunity.

“Sorry. Texted him about 20 minutes ago. He and John should be here in a few minutes.”

“Ah. Then I should  _not_ be _._ ”

Mycroft hooked his umbrella on his wrist. "Until this evening.  _Gregory_." He grinned at Greg's delighted smile. "You still have my address, I assume?"

Greg dipped his head, chuckling beneath his breath.

"I've been waiting almost six bloody  _years_  for an excuse to go to yours that didn't involve Sherlock, blood, drugs, death or unregistered guns."

"That makes two of us," said Mycroft softly, before showing himself out.

* * *

 _I'm going to take my time_  
_I have all the time in the world_  
_To make you mine_  
_It is written in the stars above_  
_The gods decree_  
_You'll be right here by my side_  
_Right next to me_  
_You can run, but you cannot hide_  
  
_Don't say you want me_  
_Don't say you need me_  
_Don't say you love me_  
_It's understood_  
_Don't say you're happy_  
_Out there without me_  
_I know you can't be_  
_'cause it's no good_

\- Depeche Mode, "It's No Good" (Ultra)


End file.
